One Way or Another
by elli-jollywogs
Summary: "You can run... I don't mind."
1. PROLOGUE

She can remember Dumbledore's voice, somber and resigned, ringing in her ears long after she takes the time-turner from him and runs. She remembers hearing his voice the moment she see's _him-_ tall, dark and more intensely intriguing than she could  
have ever imagined- patrolling the corridors of Hogwarts. His hair is swept gently to the side in a way that you can tell is effortless. His skin is pale, the flushed colour of his lips standing out in stark contrast. His eyes are two black pits in  
his face, dull and emotionless. From so far away she can't tell if they're brown, blue, green or grey- just that they're _dark_. It's fitting. She readjusts Harry's invisibility cloak around her small frame and glides gracefully, soundlessly  
down the deserted corridor.

She's thinking about what Dumbledore had told her before she left the Present- or future, she can't be certain anymore- when she walks up to the office connected to his transfiguration classroom.

She repeats exactly what he said to her, to his past self. It feels as weird as it sounds. The younger Dumbledore is much more accepting than she had assumed he would be, but that could be be cause this version of Dumbledore is already suspicious of _him_.  
Hermione leaves the notes, the evidence, the memories behind in his office and strolls out into the corridor looking more calm than she feels. She knows the trial will take years, but it's a start. She breathes a sigh of relief, still filled with  
apprehension at the thought of what the future holds for them now.

Once the enormous castle doors slam shut behind her, Hermione finds her hands are shaking, and she is _terrified_. It doesn't make her any less determined.

She doesn't know that Riddle stays behind, pale hand tense around the bannister he's leaned against, looking with flared nostrils at the empty space she's left behind.


	2. You Can Run

Chapter 1- You Can Run

A/N: I am finishing The Hanged Man, of that you can be sure. It's just that... while I was writing THM, I got this sudden, irrepressible urge to write something incredibly _dark_. This fic is loosely based on a creepy/stalker-ish playlist on my spoitfy; specifically the song Trainwreck, by Banks. Go check it out if you're not familiar. I plan to update this fic and THM simultaneously and am hoping that this does not turn into a monster novel length fic, but who knows...The chapter titles are Song titles from my playlist, so give them a listen.

Because the summary doesn't say, I would like to warn readers ahead of time that this is a magical AU. Rated M for very dark themes, torture, dub-con, stalking. I feel like there's probably more, but I'm sure you get the point.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

He looks almost exactly as he did that night at the castle. His thick, dark hair is swept to the side, but a few unruly pieces lay haphazardly across his forehead, the Summer heat making them stick with sweat. His sharp jaw is clenched and his eyes are the same mysterious dark _something_ they were before _._ Except now they're staring right at her.

Hermione clutches her notepad closer to her chest and walks slowly into the room. The walls are made entirely depressing, monochromatic, reinforced concrete splashed with fat shadows of something she can't discern; the whole building is awash in grays and shades of black. In the middle of the small room is a steel table with two matching chairs bolted to the floor. Hermione can see that his wrists are magically bound to the table by a pair of enchanted shackles but it doesn't make her feel any better. He leans forward, steepling his hands beneath his chin. His expression is flat, his eyes seemingly bored as he drinks her in, but Hermione knows it's all an act. He's reading her, trying to get a feel for her. She keeps her eyes downcast, more out of nerves than any sense of constant vigilance. She sets the pad of parchment down and takes more time than is acceptable procuring a quill and ink bottle from her messenger bag.

"Hello, Mr. Riddle," She says, and she's startled to hear that her voice doesn't waver, because realistically she knows who he is, but right now, sitting in front of her in his grimy, moth-eaten Azkaban jumpsuit, Tom Riddle looks like a _boy_. Not necessarily a boy, more like a young man on the cusp of adulthood, but the point remains the same. She can't reconcile the image of the man in front of her with his actions- past, present or future- and it makes her nervous. She feels wholly unprepared for the task at hand, and silently she curses Dumbledore andthis outrageous plan.

"Who are you," He says at last, and his voice is smooth, black honey that drips down her spine.

"I'm Ms. Pennyweather," she replies, not missing a beat "and I write for the Daily Prophet."

"I've never heard that name before," he supplies. His voice isn't suspicious, nor is his penetrating gaze, but Hermione knows, deep down, that he's instantly wary of her.

"My father was a muggle," she sniffs daintily as she unfolds the parchment in front of her. Tom Riddle sits back in his seat, as far as his enchanted shackles allow him and he raises one dark brow.

"I simply meant that I read the prophet quite often and have never come across your name before." Hermione swallows thickly past the sudden lump in her throat and shrugs one shoulder carelessly, hoping that she comes across as nonchalant, even though she feels anything but.

"I'm relatively new to the Prophet. I asked to cover the story of your trial." Riddle narrows his eyes, but doesn't say a word. It's silent for exactly one, two, three tortuously slow heartbeats before he breaks the silence.

"So, you're here for an interview." His voice is appropriately curious, his eyebrows furrowed. He looks innocent, undeniably charming and equally as humble.

She doesn't buy it.

 _It's all an act._

"Yes." Hermione dips her quill in ink and pushes the tip so forcefully into the parchment that it tears. "Damn," she curses beneath her breath, cheeks furiously hot, as she pulls out a fresh, new sheet of parchment. Riddle looks on, unimpressed.

"Are you sure you're a reporter?" He asks seriously, though Hermione swears she sees his cheek twitch in some sort of show of false amusement.

"Of course I am." She huffs out a breath and squares her shoulders. She is radiating calm, confident energy with absolutely no idea where the hell it came from.

He doesn't believe her.

But he will indulge her, if only to see what her angle is.

He gestures in front of himself with a wide sweep of his hand. His shackles dragging, scratching across the cool metal of the table. She winces at the sound.

"The floor is yours, Ms. Pennyweather," he says, and she can't tell but she thinks that she hears the extra emphasis he puts on her name.

Shaking her head, really he can't have figured out her game that quickly, Hermione looks up and is startled to find that his eyes are locked on hers. He raises a delicate brow when she shows no move to begin the interview, and Hermione's cheeks flame once more.

Just another superficial moron, Riddle thinks, before sitting up in his chair.

"Why don't you tell me what happened." Tom starts, his mask of cool indifference slipping just enough that Hermione can see that she's thrown him for a loop.

"Excuse me?" He asks coldly.

"I want to hear your side of the story." Tom knows exactly what to say, knows exactly what looks to give and what words to emphasize, but he's momentarily stunned, and he's angry because no one ever takes him by surprise.

It's not the question so much as the way she asks it, with a decided indifference to his answer. Most female reporters are tripping over themselves when they come to see him; every single insipid gossip reporter is already convinced that he didn't, no _couldn't_ have possibly committed such an unspeakable act. Tom can't honestly say that if they knew the truth they would care either way. But he does well in making sure that they leave with just the right amount of sympathy and outrage for his current predicament; locked up in Azkaban, with the dementors, rotting away for a crime he didn't commit. Every nausea-inducing, puff piece they've ever written about him reeks of it.

Oh, he makes _sure_ of it.

He can instantly see that that will not be the case with this reporter. She's decided then, that he's guilty already. Oh she may think she's good, but Tom can recognize the subtle way her hands shake as she holds her quill, the way she looks at him with unwarranted, unbridled mistrust for no apparent reason and he can't understand why because she doesn't even know him.

She only knows the evidence, and Tom knows it's all circumstantial at best.

He made sure of that as well.

He decides to take a different approach.

"Let's be honest, you're not really here to tell my side of the story." Hermione's eyes narrow in confusion.

"What are you-"

"You already think I'm guilty," he interrupts. Hermione works hard to keep her surprise off her face. "What I'd like to know is why. You don't know me, you don't even seem familiar to Hogwarts, though we appear to be of the same age." Hermione shakes her head, her eyes locked on his. Riddle keeps his gaze locked on her as well, though he notices, with amusement, that she doesn't write anything down. Her hand is frozen, paralyzed, hovering just slightly above her piece of blank parchment.

"I went to Bauxbatons," she replies in a flat voice, quickly averting her gaze. She twirls the quill between her thin fingers nervously.

"That is a very _subtle_ accent you have, Ms. Pennyweather," he comments with a disarming smirk. Hermione narrows her eyes in response. "Nevertheless," he continues "I am curious as to why you're here."

"I told you, I'm here to-"

"Do you think me an idiot, Ms. Pennyweather?" He asks without malice. Hermione calmly places her quill down onto the table and sits back in her seat, crossing her hands primly in her lap.

"Of course not, Mr. Riddle,"

"Then please, don't insult my intelligence with your lies." At this, Hermione can see the subtle changes in his demeanor. Outwardly, he's still composed, but Hermione can see the flash of something _other_ in his eyes; the way his nostrils flare when he nearly hisses the word 'lies'. Hermione smiles a tight, quick smile.

"I don't know what you mean, Mr. Riddle."

"I'm sure you don't," he deadpans. Hermione is surprised that he hasn't wasted any of his false charisma on her. She remembers Dumbledore telling her that Tom Riddle was infamous for charming everyone he met. She can remember Harry telling her about the young Dark Lord's compelling, hypnotic voice. Like a living, breathing version of the imperius curse, he could bend people to his will without so much as lifting his wand. He was magnetic, his powers of persuasion rumoured to be undeniably irresistible.

"So, Ms. Pennyweather," he continues "what do you want to know?" It's a loaded question. One that Hermione can't help but ponder. What does she want to know? She's here to get information, after all it is part of her mission, but he seems disinclined to tell her anything substantial. Not that she thought he ever would, but it was worth a try; at least it was worth it to suss out his personality for herself. This is the longest that she's ever spoken to him in any version of the past. Before, she could never work up the nerve to utter more than two words to him. She finds, suddenly, that she wants to widdle away at the outward coolness of him and dig deep to the twisted, maniacal, homicidal orphan that lies beneath the pretty surface.

Hermione has always been unnaturaly curious. Suddenly, for a very brief, intense moment, her confidence crests to a decidedly pleasant head. Tom Riddle is no longer a person, but a _project_.

And it's true, in a decidedly twisted way.

"Tell me," she intones, voice soft, yet commanding "Is it true?" She knows it is, but some warped, deeply disturbed part of her wants to see him lie. Wants to see what it looks like, what it sounds like.

"Of course not," he scoffs, leaning back in his chair. There's no sign that he's lying. He looks right at her, his eyes open and honest, and oh he's so _good_.

"Of course not," she repeats with a quirk of her eyebrow. "What happened?" Tom runs a weary hand over his face and licks his lips.

"How am I supposed to know?" She purses her lips and gathers her quill and parchment up, intent on leaving.

"Can I tell you something," he asks softly, and Hermione's head jerks up at the sound. "Off the record?" She nods her head, not even sure why.

"I'm a half-blood." Hermione's not sure why he tells her this. It's not like she doesn't know already, she knows everything about him, but this is information she's sure he doesn't outwardly acknowledge, and she has to wnder why he's doing it _now_. She finds herself wishing she could tear away the skin, crack his skull open and sift through his brain in order to find out exactly what his end-game is here; wishes she could understand his motives. She wonders how many people he's admitted this to. In fact, she's not sure when this information first came to light. For all she knows, she could be the first person he's confided in. She knows Riddle is not a pureblood name. He's surely not one of the Sacred Twenty Eight, but she was under the impression that nobody really cared. It was _Tom Riddle_ , after all. Lord Voldemort. Oh he may look like a boy, a man, but Hermione knows that he's tortured people, he's murdered his family, he's already _ruined his soul._

Her brows furrow, because she's confused and she hates to feel this way. This is not at all how this was supposed to go. She was supposed to be getting information, and all that she's succeeded in doing so far is confirming what she already knew. She pretends to act genuinely surprised and more than a little curious [which isn't at all far from the truth] before slowly sitting back in her seat.

"Off the record," she repeats "why would you tell me this?" Riddle shrugs one shoulder, his eyes intense as he gazes at her. Hermione tries not to let on exactly how much his stare disarms her.

"They say that only a direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin can open the chamber." She nods her head, showing him that she knows precisely where he's going with this, and she does, but it doesn't matter. "Do you honestly think Salazar Slytherins heir apparent would be some half-blood nobody raised in a muggle orphanage?" Hermione's eyes widen. She knows the truth, but it almost doesn't matter. His eyes, his voice, they're compelling in a way that even she doesn't understand. This, she thinks, this is the man who will lead an army against her family and friends. This is the narrow-minded half-blooded monster who fights for pureblood supremacy. He thinks she's worth nothing, that people like her deserve to be put down like animals. He's murdered and tortured innocent people. He's killed her friends. He is the reason her parents no longer remember her.

She can barely tell. She tries to picture gleaming, terrifying red eyes in place of his very dark, but very human ones and can't do it and it makes her so _angry_.

She thought that she could do this. She thought that she could sit in front of him and be okay with this, but she's not and she fears that soon it will start to show. She is so completely unhinged by the fact that she is sitting in front of the future Lord Voldemort. She knows his secrets, knows his innermost fears and ambitions. Her head is spinning, and she suddenly feels quite sick to her stomach.

"Who do you think did it then," she breathes "who do you think could have opened the Chamber?" He swallows and she watches the motion with some trepidation.

"That doesn't matter," he says in a rare moment of honesty. Hermione balks, her self-preservation leaving her momentarily and she stands up, outraged.

"What do you mean it doesn't matter?" She all but yells. "A girl has died. Mrytle Warren was only fourteen years old!" Riddle has the sense to look properly ashamed, but Hermione knows it's all for show.

 _It's all an act._

"The only thing that I can say with any level of certainty," he says with conviction "is that I didn't open that Chamber."

If she was really a reporter from the 1940's she would have eaten up every one of his lies. It's in his eyes. He speaks with conviction. It's almost as though he believes every untruth he breathes. Instead, she huffs and shakes her head, shoving the blank parchment and wet quill back into her bag. She misses the way that Tom Riddle's eyes narrow at her.

"You don't believe me," he says quietly, and it's his tone of voice that makes her eyes snap up to his. He's looking down his nose at her, eyes dark and frightening in such a way that Hermione backs away from him without even realising what she's doing. "Which is odd, considering you don't know me." Hermione swallows nervously and hopes that he doesn't catch it.

He does.

"Ms. Pennyweather, everything I've told you today is the truth. Whether you believe it or not is of no consequence to me." She freezes, panicking, trying desperately to maintain some semblance of control over this conversation, but Hermione knows that she's royally fucked up this encounter and the only way to fix it would be to go back in time _again_ , and she knows that she can't risk it. If she's being honest with herself, she's not even really sure she wants to fix it. The only thing that Hermione can think about is the unbelievably horrific future that she comes from and she's looking at Tom Riddle and thinking, _this is all your fault_.

She tries to reign in her anger. She knows that she should just leave well enough alone, but she can't. Hermione wrestles the strap to her bag over her shoulder and she whispers beneath her breath, not sure if he hears her and not really caring if he does.

"I don't believe you, Mr. Riddle." She expects him to lie again, expects him to at least attempt to plead his case. He does neither.

"And I don't quite believe you either, Ms. Pennyweather," he says with a smirk that throws Hermione completely off kilter. She blinks in surprise, but other than that shows no outward signs of being ousted. Riddle, stands up, his hands resting on the table in front of him. "I won't be locked up in Azkaban forever," he whispers. Hermione tries to suppress the chill that runs down her spine, but she can't and Tom smiles conspiratorially. "Eventually, they'll release me." Hermione tries to stay strong, but she knows she's already lost. She resigns herself to the fact that she's fucked this version of the past up, almost as bad as the other ones. Soon, she'll get word from Dumbledore and she'll have to try again. Maybe next time she won't be quite so weak around _him_.

"I surely hope not," she replies. Her fingers tingling. She is absolutely itching to get out of that room and away from him. She walks to the door without looking back. She's almost there- could reach out and grip the handle andmake it all just _go away-_ when she hears him whisper.

"Oh, you can run." Her breath catches. "I don't mind."


	3. Ready or Not

Chapter 2-

A/N: For the purpose of this story, I will be going the non cannon route with some of the time-turner explanations. Since it's obviously too early in the story to have Theo Nott make a true time turner, I'm going to pretend that one has already been made, and that the characters are still 18. Aside from that, I'm going to try to make everything in the story as close to cannon as I can: including characters, stores, spells and wizarding lore. Since this is a magical AU however, and set in the 1940's, I'd like to stress that not everything can be cannon. With that said, THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH FOR REVIEWING THIS STORY. I was blown away by all of the positive reviews I received, and only two chapters into the story no less!

"In nineteen forty seven, Riddle will be twenty one years old and working as a purchasing agent for Borgin and Burkes. Though he may seem young I implore you, Ms. Granger, to heed my warnings. Whence you arrive in nineteen forty seven, he will have already managed to create two Horcruxes that we know of. And we both know he'll be looking to make more..."

She never gets a letter. She wonders if it's because the timeline is the same and she still has more work to do, or if she's changed it so drastically that she's created a new reality and Dumbedore is no longer there to help her; she can't get a read on the situation, and because she can't go forward in time yet, she has no way of finding out. She's just going to have to wait to hear from Dumbledore. Though if Hermione knew that she was going to be putting all of her eggs into that particular basket, she might have rethought her decision.

She wonders what kind of butterfly effect she's wreaked on the future. She wonders what it's like there and whether she's changed anything. Is the time-line the same? Riddle had never gone to jail before in their version of the past. She wonders what that has done to their future.

She decides to move into a new flat.

While she awaits further instruction from Dumbledore, she decides that she might as well make herself more comfortable [she forces herself not to think about the permanence of the action].

Hermione spends the next week, after interviewing Riddle at Azkaban, shopping for new things for her apartment. She's glad that she brought so much money with her. This trip to the past is looking like it's going to be more expensive than she originally anticipated. Luckily, her money stretches further in the forties than it had in the nineties. Hermione makes a list- a list that seems to grow longer every day- of things that she needs to pick-up.

She apparates straight from her barely furnished flat to the Leaky Cauldron. She doesn't put too much stock into the stares and whispers that follow her. 'I should probably look for some appropriate clothes' she thinks to herself. Her outfit is a simple pair of black wool pants that she transfigured into a skirt and a button up blouse. Hermione knows that she doesn't quite fit into this decade. Her hair is an absolute mess, nothing even remotely close to the elegant, pinned and tucked hairstyles that are popular now.

She adds Sleakeazy's Hair Potion to her list.

Once her apartment is furnished, and she's purchased a new set of cauldrons and ingredients from Slug and Jiggers, Hermione makes her way back to the Leaky Cauldron for some lunch. Her shopping excursion has lasted much longer than anticipated, thanks to the borderline obsessed fitting ladies at Twillfit and Tattings, but she supposes that's to be expected when she walks in asking for an entirely new wardrobe. If it were up to her, Hermione would have gladly grabbed a couple pieces from the Second Hand Robe shop and thrown them in a pile, but she knows she should probably attempt to make an impression. That's what she's doing here, after all. As she walks down the wet cobblestone street she notices a harried looking wizard shouting from beneath the awning of the Daily Prophet's main office.

"Riddle Aquitted! Former Hogwarts Head Boy found not guilty for the murder of Mrytle Warren!" Without any modicum of decorum, Hermione roughly pushes through the throng of passerby.

"Give me that!" she shouts, just as she rudely snatches the paper out of the mans hand. She scans the paper quickly with a growing sense of unease. Hermione can feel her stomach clench and her hands start to sweat as she shifts the paper even closer.

"Tom Riddle, aged twenty one, was recently found not guilty, by a unanimous Wizengamot, for the suspected murder of former Hogwarts student, Mrytle Warren. Riddle, who graduated from Hogwarts just three years ago, was top of his class and awarded the high honor of school prefect before eventually going on to become Head Boy." Hermoine sighs "Blah blah blah," she breathes under her breath, and then "Riddle spoke out about his plans after his acquittal. 'I would like to put this all behind me. I have every sympathy for Ms. Warren's family and am truly sorry for the loss they have endured. As for me, I will return to my work at Borgin and Burkes." She pauses, her skin growing paler as she looks up from the paper and glances around her. She suddenly has the strangest feeling that she's being watched. She shakes her head, hunching her shoulders beneath her cloak and glancing back down at the paper in her hand. She shakes it out, biting the nail of her thumb before pressing on with a grimace. "When asked how he felt about being falsely accused, Riddle had this to say 'I'm happy my truth has come to light. I do so hope they find whoever committed this unspeakable act so that justice may be served'." Hermione rolls her eyes. _Yeah right_ , she thinks.

"Oi! Lady! Can I have my paper back now?" Hermione blushes from the roots of her hair to her neck before shoving the paper back at the man.

"Sorry," she mumbles, before making her way over to the Leaky Cauldron.

She knew it was going to happen. She didn't count on them holding Riddle forever. He could weasel his way out of anything, she supposed.

Hermione makes her way over to the Leaky Cauldron, her head spinning. She makes it through the doorway just as it begins to rain again and sits down heavily at a dirty table, quickly ordering a shot of Ogden's before downing it in a single gulp. Her throat and stomach burn but she feels better almost instantly. She'll wait for a letter, she thinks, and after that her mission begins. Hermione orders another shot, her stomach twisting uncomfortably as she starts to put together a plan in her head. The barkeep gives her a nasty look, before making his way back behind the bar to wipe down glasses. He keeps a watchful eye on her, but otherwise minds his own business, for which Hermione is grateful.

She's wrestled together quite a bit of information during her time here and her research before her trip. She knows that Tom works at Borgin and Burkes, which is a considerable waste of his talents, she laments- but again, none of her business. She knows that he uses his charm to talk people into giving up some of their most valuable, and more often than not dark, artifacts and possessions. She knows that in eight years, at almost twenty nine years old, Tom riddle will make his third Horcrux from Salazar Slytherin's locket. She surmises that that is where she should start. She'll have to track down the necklace and the cup. From the information she's gathered, Hepzibah Smith is already in possession of the locket, and if she knows that before Riddle does than she's already two steps ahead of him. If she gets that locket before he does, then she can prevent the Horcrux from ever having been made. If Hepzibah Smith has both the locket and the cup, well then, Hermione's doing a decidedly better job in the past than she thought.

She wonders what the possible effects of saving someone from their fate may be. How does sparing Hepzibah Smith from a most certain death change the outcome of her future? She's certainly okay with sparing that poor house elf from being accused of a crime she didn't commit. Hermione decides to go back to her new flat and rest. _Tomorrow_ , she thinks, _tomorrow I will start tracking down the locket and the cup_.

She doesn't know if they should be destroyed once she finds them; doesn't know if Hebzibah Smith should be taken care of in order to preserve the timeline as much as she can. She figures that she'll wait for Dumbledore's instructions, and in the meantime come up with a tentative plan before going out and looking for Lord Voldemort's future Horcruxes. She squirms at the thought.

After paying for her tab, smirking slightly at the distasteful look on the bar keep's face, Hermione makes her way out onto the wet, near deserted cobblestone street of Diagon Alley before apparating to her new flat. Shaking the rain out of her hair, Hermione strips her jacket off- a lovely belted, black wool trench coat- before deciding to take a shower. She unpacks her new toiletries, giving the bottle of Sleakeazy's an indignant glare, and folds a towel over the curtain rail. Hermione sighs loudly as she steps into the stream, which is decidedly warm, her muscles instantly relaxing. Before traveling to the past, Hermione can't actually remember the last time that she had last taken a shower in a real bathroom. For months, on the run with both Harry and Ron, she had used streams and bowls filled with water from her wand in order to wash herself up. After they returned from their extended camping trip, they had to stay in safe houses with transfigured bathrooms, which couldn't come close to the prefects bathroom at Hogwarts, but which was decidedly better than having to take a bath in a river.

She tries to keep them out of her mind; tries to block the thoughts that threaten to consume her if she pays them any amount of attention. She misses them, Harry and Ron, with a fierceness that makes her heart nearly stutter to a stop in her chest. The war had gone on for longer than any of them had anticipated.

She remembers, with a sudden, choked cry, the day Ginny had died; stunned squarely in the chest with a killing curse in the middle of a battle between only three Death Eaters and ten members of the Order. That was all it took. One well aimed killing curse, and they all watched in horror as Ginny seized up, eyes wide and terrified, before falling to the ground, red hair fanning out around her like a halo. She remembers Ron's anguished _scream_ , and she remembers never having heard anything quite like it in her entire life. The Death Eaters were killed, but it was too late by then, and the remaining members of the Order had looked at Ginny- no one brave enough to approach her body- spilled out on the ground like she was sleeping- until they glimpsed her listless, lifeless eyes- and finally, Hermione walked over and ran a shaking palm over her face, closing her friends eyelids while Ron screamed behind her.

That day was one of the worst days of her life, she recalls, swallowing thickly. Hermione doesn't want to replay the scene in her head, so she forces her eyelids open, and then she's thinking of Ginny again, and she slides down the wall to the floor, hugging her knees to her chest. She shoots out a trembling hand and shuts the water- which has gone cold- off, resting her head against the cool tiles. Her hair is sticking to her neck and forehead. She doesn't bother reaching out for the towel, merely sits in silence staring distractedly at the shower curtain which lets in shadowed patches of light from the bathroom window. Hermione can hear the rain pitter-patter against the glass and she closes her eyes with a tired, helpless sigh.

 _This, this is why I'm here,_ She has to remind herself.

Pulling herself up with the edge of the tub, Hermione reaches out for the towel and wraps it around her small, shivering frame before stepping out. The bathroom mirror has fogged over, and Hermione runs her hand across the surface before smoothing a generous amount of Sleakeazy's through her hair. She grimaces at the reflection staring back at her, eyes red-rimmed and glassy. She can't remember what her face looks like without the sharp angle of her cheekbones poking through her pale skin, or the purple bags pressing around her sockets. Her eyebrows are still thick and dark, framing a decidedly long pair of lashes that are spiky and wet from her shower. Her lips are chapped and crusted over with blood from where she's bit through the skin in one spot. She puts some skin potions on and runs her fingers through her tangled hair before pulling the towel tighter around her bony chest and flicking the light off.

The rest of the flat is dark, bathed in an inky charcoal grey from the moonlight streaming through the open windows. She pads over to the sink, filling the kettle with tap water before setting it on an open flame and poking through her cupboards for some tea and honey. She can hear the steady _drip, drip, drip_ of the faucet in the bathroom, but aside from that the flat is unnaturally quiet. She picks up the kettle, turns around, and screams.

"Hello, Ms. Pennyweather."


	4. Who are you?

A/N: I will continue to update this story this year. Sorry this took so long. It's unforgivable. I had a baby and things got away from me...

Chapter 3- Who are you?

Hermione is so startled that she drops the kettle full of near boiling water, splashing her legs and feet. Before she can scream in surprise or pain- she's not quite sure which- a hands darts out from the dark and settles over her mouth.

"Ah, ah, ah," he whispers in her ear, his warm breath against her wet hair sending a shiver down her spine. She struggles against him and he wraps his other arm around her middle, pinning her arms to her side. Hermione can feel every inch of him pressed against her back and she fights the urge to vomit, her eyes watering as she breathes heavily out of her nose.

She doesn't want to die.

"I've been searching your house, ," he breathes and her breath hitches. "I know, it's uncommonly rude of me, but I must admit I was curious about you after our little interview last week." Her palms are sweating furiously and she's panicking. This is not how this was supposed to go, Hermione thinks. She could bash her head against a wall for all the time's she's thought that since showing up in the past. But it's obviously much too late to change anything now. Hermione is undeniably grateful that she keeps everything of value in her beaded bag. She glimpses it out of the corner of her eye, hanging next to her jacket on the coat rack by her door. She squeezes her eyes shut and lets out an almost relieved breath. "I wasn't able to find anything of interest to me. Not even a single newspaper clipping. No photographs, no identification. I've already been to the Prophet to ask about you. Imagine my surprise when I was informed that they had no record of a Ms. Pennyweather ever having worked for them. Which begs the question," he leans in even closer, his lips barely brushing the shell of her ear as he hisses, "Who are you?" He pulls his hand away from her mouth and tangles his fingers in her damp hair, brutally tightening his fist before yanking back so hard that she screams and her knees buckle.

"I won't ask again, sweetheart."

Her face is hot and her eyes wet. Hermione bites her lip, squeezing her eyes shut.

 _It's just a dream, It's just a dream_ -

He yanks her head back again, until Hermione is forced to look up at him from her spot on the floor, her knees burning. She's in hot water, literally and she can feel her skin getting tighter, the feeling like something is bubbling beneath the surface making her chest and neck hot. It feels like she's boiling from the inside out.

"Please," she begs, not even really sure what she's begging for.

"Tell me," he demands.

She struggles to identify the emotion churning in her gut- something like drowning, she acknowledges wistfully. Those few panic filled moments of flailing, kicking and choking an _d don't fucking breathe_ , before you finally, blissfully give in to the near hypnotic pull of completely surrendering yourself to the water and the waves.

She swallows tightly, her eyes falling shut as she lets out a staggering breath. Riddle collapses to his knees behind her; she can feel the solid planes of his chest carved out against the naked skin of her back before he's pulling her down and pushing, pushing her shaking body into the floor. She opens her eyes and stares at the black spots dancing across her ceiling, too shadowed in embarrassment and anger and _how fucking dare you_ \- to realize that he's thrown a damp, fabric covered knee over her waist to straddle her.

He takes her chin between two soft, slender fingers and- she fucking knows, of course she does- that he's trying desperately, frenetically, to meet her eyes.

"Don't," she demands between clenched teeth.

Riddle simply clucks his tongue and Hermione can see the disturbing pull of muscles in his cheek that lets her know that he's enjoying every twisted, agonizing moment of this.

"Tell me who you are," he hisses.

She tastes bile on the back of her tongue.

"Fuck you," she spits, face absolutely glowing; stunning in its unbridled, unrestrained anger.

"Promise?" he whispers, just as cruelly and as equally undone in his apparent rage.

She feels the wet, hot slide of his tongue against her cheek before she **screams**.

She scarcely has a second to think, to breathe even before he pulls her up by her hair only to roughly slam her skull down against the linoleum covered concrete floor.

Bright spots dance beneath her clenched eyelids but through it all, Hermione can see the shape of his face- planes and slopes and curves and shadows in a shade of black more deep and fathomless than midnight- leering over her.

"Your fear is intoxicating, you know," he breathes. "I'm so tired of having to pretend, you see." Hermione feels the warm, slip-slide of tears coating her cheeks, her jaw clenched tight.

 _I'm scared_ , she's saying, _but I don't want to be_.

 _I hate you,_ her body screams, _**I still fucking hate you**_.

"Nobody knows any better," he continues in an enthralling, sibilant hiss, "But this," he cups her jaw, fingers digging painfully into the sensitive flesh of her cheek. "I've missed _this_ \- this sort of stunning, near-erotic display of fear." He leans in close, his lips nearly brushing the hot, reddened skin of her ear. "No one is supposed to know any better. But you do, don't you Granger?"

Her pulse jumps, she can hear it pounding beneath the too thin skin of her wrist and throat

"How did you-" she begins, but she knows instantly what a stupid, utterly pointless and inspid line of question that is. _Of course he knows_ , she laments and, _how could he not_? Constant vigilance has failed her thus far, she admits bitterly.

"I know a lot of things," he admits with an unfairly cruel, handsomely crooked smirk. She tries to suppress her own when she realizes that that is probably all the he knows of her person.

It doesn't stop Hermione from smartly realizing that her circumstances could change in a matter of moments. She decides she would rather not outlive her usefulness.

"I happen to know a lot of things too, Tom," she supplies breathless, fighting the overwhelming urge she has to press, to push, to _writhe and scream and fight._

"Oh," he breathes, his eyes alight with _something_ she can't discern, but that nevertheless makes her feel _uneasy_ , to say the least. "Of that I have no doubt."

And then he's up and reaching; his hand outstretched toward her shivering, sprawled out body, his eyes cold and dark and, **and**...

She takes his hand.

He lets her change in her room.

She glances longingly at the bathroom door, where her discarded wand lay, dangling precariously over the edge of the porcelain sink. She shuts her eyes and turns towards her bedroom, swallowing a nervous sigh as she rummages through her drawers, looking first for some clothes, and then for something that can help her out of this unfathomable situation she's found herself in.

She finds nothing.

She slips into a long silken nightgown and a robe, trying- in vain she hastily realizes- to preserve that image he has of her. But she knows it's fruitless. She's no more a reporter from the 1940's as he is a saint. Still, she finds comfort in the routine.

When she emerges, Riddle is sifting through her bookcase, trying and failing so abysmally at looking disinterested that she wonders if she's ever worn the same expression on her face.

"Magick Moste Evil," he breathes delightedly, and Hermione represses the shiver that forces its way down her spine. "Interesting." He turns from his perusal of her bookshelf in order to look at her fully, and when he sees her, she can tell that he tries to hide his disappointment. As though he where waiting for her to don the clothing of her time. She tries to imagine standing before _Tom fucking Riddle_ in a a pair of muggle jeans and a sweatshirt.

 _Ridiculous_ , she wants to say aloud, but she fucking _knows better_ , doesn't she?

She cinches the robe tighter around her waist.

"There are things I think we should discuss," He replies easily, pulling his fingers from the spines of her books in order to unstopper her decanter and pour both of them a reasonable sized glass of firewhiskey. He hands one to her without making eye contact and she's grateful for the reprieve. She takes the glass. But she knows without a doubt that she won't be drinking it.

"So," he beings, casually, falling gracefully into the cushioned armchair near her fire-place. He looks, for all the world, like a casual dinner guest. Not, she thinks disparagingly, like an uninvited, megalomaniacal **tyrant**.

Because that's exactly what he is.

And _fuck_ , she should not have to be reminding herself this early into her mission.

She massages her temples.

"You're a tyrant," she replies flatly, drinking the entirety of her firewhiskey in one fell swoop. The burn is enough to distract her from the impossibility of the situation in its entirety. She is not, she urges quietly, internally, drinking firewhiskey in her flat in 1947 with Tom Riddle.


	5. Blood-Water

A/N: I kind of started this story with one or two pivotal scenes in mind and not much else planned- but that has changed. So, rest assured that the entirety of this novel/novella is planned and outlined. I told my husband he has to watch the kiddos once a week so that I can get schoolwork/writing done. I'd like to get back into this in a big way. Taking a reviewers advice and making shorter chapters with more frequent updates. Thanks for sticking around.

She tries to keep from looking at him. Really, she does, but it's entirely fruitless. She's drawn to him in a way that scares her/

No, it _terrifies_ her.

She's just so _fascinated_. She can't help it.

She's always been a curious person. And she is. Curious, that is. How could she not be? Harry had seen memories; had relayed the information back to her and Ron, but nothing could compare to being, experiencing and living a part of that history.

She wasn't ready to reconcile the fact that this young man, this good looking, intelligent and charismatic, albeit cruel young man in front of her turns into... **that**.

That's the only way she can think to describe what he becomes. Not a person, not a creature... Something in the middle. Something darker than black magic and crueler and smarter than anyone could have imagined.

She had underestimated him, that much was clear. Just how much remains to be seen, she supposes.

"A tyrant, hm?" he questions thoughtfully, swirling the amber liquid 'round his tumbler, his voice hypnotic and smooth. "Not yet, I suppose."

She doesn't react. Or at least, she tries not to. She's a Gryffindor though; she knows, so she tries desperately to tame those impulses. Tries to hang onto the last few remaining threads of her self-control.

 _Think like a Slytherin_ , she implores herself. _Give_ **nothing** _more away._ And she's smart, she thinks. _I can play at being a Slytherin_.

"Is that your endgame?" She asks sweetly, pouring herself another glass of firewhiskey, if only to keep her eyes and hands busy. She turns as he stiffens in his seat, face turned towards the cold, ash-covered hearth.

"Coy doesn't exactly suit you, sweetheart," he breathes. "Why don't you tell me?" Hermione looks up warily, knowing that doing so makes her **so** unbelievably vulnerable. But she can't help it. It's useless. _She's_ useless. "What _is_ my endgame?" He wonders aloud, eyes pinning her in place and **fuck** if she's not _transfixed_.

She decides she doesn't want to play this game... His game.

"World Domination?" He doesn't react, so she continues, his eyes never leaving her lips as she speaks. "No, that's a little too ambitious for you. How about we start with the eradication of muggleborn witches and wizards." She longs to see his face. Wants to see how he feels knowing that she's aware of his plans and his prejudice, but suddenly, frantically she realizes that she can no longer move- frozen in the space between life and death, she supposes- as she watches, enraptured, as he fishes his wand out of the pocket of his cloak- the air suddenly thick and cold and fraught with a kind of tension Hermione has never experienced before.

"What did you say?" he hisses, voice like ice, fist clenched tightly around his glass. He squeezes, tips of his fingers turning white. Hermione is watching, wincing, waiting to see how much harder he has to pinch to get the glass, or the space around them, to finally fucking _shatter._

"It's true, no?" She looks at him, nostrils flared. No longer afraid, just so fucking exhausted, already, of this mission that seems to be making less and less sense the more time she spends here.

"It is, but that's not what I was talking about." Hermione's brows furrow as Riddle flashes her a wicked smile."What makes you think I don't want to rule the world?" Hermione sits so still that she's sure she's not even breathing. Sucked in by the sound of his voice, the cadence, the flow, the fucking _conviction_. Everything about him in this moment is making her spine straighten and the hairs on her arm and neck stand on end. She represses a shiver, standing up and edging closer to her kitchen, well aware that her adrenaline is pumping, fight or flight instincts taking over- and her body, her mind has to _pick one for the love of Merlin before he fucking gauges her eyes out or slits her throat or_ _ **both**_ _._

"I'm sure you do," she whispers, as he stands to join her. She's walking backwards, and for every step she takes, he takes two more. She looks around, trying in vain to find some way to get out of this situation. It looks like he's done playing nice for the evening, if his slow prowl- like a panther stalking it's prey- is anything to go by. Hermione snatches her wand from the bathroom counter and spins around just in time to see Riddle's trained on her.

"As fun as this is, I'd rather get what I came for and be on my way." Hermione swallows thickly, trying to steady her hand.

"What you came for..." She blinks, rapidly flipping through her vast catalog of spells. This is it. He could kill her. Hermione Granger is smart, she knows, and she's rarely faced a force that she was unsure whether she could handle.

This time... this time is different, though. She had faced Death Eaters, unspeakable evil of the highest degree, torture and even death itself and none of those things could even **touch** the man standing in front of her, his wand pointed steadily at her face. She wonders at the feeling washing over her, this hyper-manic awareness that pushes its way through her chest and skin, making her fingers tremble and her eyes dry. She breathes in and out, feeling her magic in the most tangible way, course through her hand into her wand.

"Yes," he whispers delightedly, and she trembles at the sound. "My answers."

Hermione's first instinct is to be outraged at the way that he demands _anything_ from her until she remembers what, or who, really, she is dealing with.

"And if I don't give them to you?" She suggests, cursing her false show of bravado in that moment. Riddle smiles, and as interested as she is in dissecting the look on his face, she is far more interested in contemplating her potentially short shelf-life.

"Funny," he murmurs, "you're making it sound as though I'm giving you a choice"

She doesn't give herself time to think.

"Stupefy!"

He blocks it, of course he does- was she really expecting anything less?- and retaliates wordlessly. Hermione prays her Protego works against his silent assault. It does, and suddenly she's not thinking about Tom Riddle or Dumbledore or the mission, nor how truly dangerous it is to get into a duel with the future Dark Lord. She's in her head, back in the throes of war. She rolls to the side, ducking beneath her kitchen table and firing off two wordless spells at random. Riddle, having not suspected her experience or _enthusiasm_ , (she assumes he is unsuspecting of her intelligence as well), hisses as a spell grazes his arm, cutting through the fabric and drawing blood from beneath his flesh.

His normally cool exterior is gone, replaced by eyes that look like fire, lips pulled back into a snarl, teeth sharp and white and, and his body, his face- everything about him- is positively **screaming** at her to get out, _get out_ , _**get out...**_

 __The cupboard beside her suddenly explodes, splintering into thousands of little pieces, the wood scraping the pale skin of her exposed neck and face as she tucks her head beneath her arms for cover.

Suddenly, he is right there, practically on top of her, standing over her with a thunderous expression on his face. He grips her neck, fingers bruising, corded muscle straining the fabric of his shirt as he lifts- higher and higher until Hermione is standing on the very tips of her toes, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes as she struggles to breathe. She drops her wand, hands flying up to pull and push and scratch at his arms, black spots dancing behind his face as her vision swims. He tosses her to the ground. Everything, all at once, quite suddenly goes black as her head slams into the floor once more. He walks towards her, his soft footsteps sounding as though they're a million miles away as Hermione fights the feeling she has to surrender to the darkness threatening to pull her under. She's going to pass out, she's sure of it.

Riddle kneels down, face absolutely fucking _furious-_ bothbeautiful and brutal in his unrestrained anger.

Hermione winces, not daring to close her eyes, even though every bone and muscle in her body is screaming at her to just _give in already_.

Riddle pushes wild curls away from her face, his hand coming back still and covered in blood. _Her_ blood. Hermione's stomach turns. She thinks she's going to be sick.

 _This is it_ , she thinks to herself. _This is when I die_.

"I'm not going to kill you" Riddle whispers, and she feels a part of her chest cave in. "You're far more useful to me, alive, I think." She tries to suppress the urge she has to vomit, breathing heavily through her nose, inhaling the smell of fresh blood and splintered wood and _him_.

Her eyes close; her eyelids are too heavy, her brain too muddled to care that she's leaving herself exposed; vulnerable.

"Sleep," he whispers and Hermione lets out a weighted breath. "I'll be here when you wake up,"  
he promises darkly, "don't you worry your pretty little head..."


End file.
